He asks, "define emotion?"

In my own state of carelessness,
I give him the answer he never wanted

Happiness, is driving 115 in a 65 MPH zone
Not caring,
Because a part of you wants to die young anyways
A part of you is dead already
But that is your secret
And no one needs to know,
All the aspects that you will never show.

Desperation, is the feel of a sharp knife,
Gliding against ****** skin like an experienced lover
Giving release without slicing too deep.
A smear,
A mark,
A badge of ******* honor
Because you flirted with death and made it out alive.

Stupidity,  is the freedom found at 16
Driving through a coastal city
As the first cold front shimmies it's way through the trees  
Illegally smoking cigarettes
With a half bottle of ***** rolling around underneath the seat
It was always *****,
It just had to be

Pleasure begins in a clever little pill
It was almost too much,
Sublime in nature....
Dangerous in reality
But it made you feel good
And for once
Everything was ok

Reality is the writing of my transgressions
Like I haven't a care in the world who reads them.  

I'm flawed...
Why is this such a surprise to you?

© 2014 Peach

I walk through
the door marked "you"
A cloud of poison
I have chosen
because I crave nothing
but suffering
please tell me
that my sweet scene lingers
the way your words do
the way your fingers
always have.

you made this.

so revel in your creation, doctor frankenstein,
it was not i who chose to come into being.

you forced me into creation,
and now you must live with my screams in the night
my burnt wrists
and the haunt of a smile that lingers in my eyes -

you did this,
not
me.

*** a couple times with your hand that
    has one vein popped up over the knuckle. sheets crinkle
    laundry sits in the small humid room.
    smells like roadkill and peppermint,
    like christmas eve with dinner down the toilet.

you've *** four times in an hour,
rubbing at yourself through your underwear.
don't touch skin. it's off limits today.

getting raw means you can feel
how it stings when you cross your legs.
it's not about pleasure. it's the reminder:
   you want to know what you look like,
   what you feel like.

next time you're ******* down some boy you ask him
"how does that feel?" he says "good."
            quick kiss, his ****** is archaic and copper.
            you like how it tastes. now it's your turn:
but of course he won't make you *** unless
you take your hand and rub while he *****,
your hand a barrier between his body and yours.

          "please be quiet," you say out loud
the boy furrows his eyebrows, "i didn't say anything."
you laugh, "no, my stomach."

pretend to *** for a faster exit.
give him a tiny maternal kiss.
let it linger out the room where it's cold but he's still warm.
you don't want a warmth you have to love because it's too much.

the scab on your neck is now a scar
       and you have no make-up for the ones on your forearms, but
       really, most of you by now is star dust and tobacco leaves.

               the sun is in our eyes. i want to know
               what makes a circle go on forever.
i think about ****** a lot.
dreamt two nights ago chris sold me some,
it was in that tiny wax bag with a "king ******" stamp .
when i texted him the next day said "i dreamt
we did some together," he said
                 "that's funny. i've been doing some definitely
                  but not really selling."

     the Chicago cold does something odd enough to you.
it always seemed like you were alive as a kid. well,
were you?

               where is your body? out in the storm.
                are you a ghost? no, it would be nice though:
                    the lack of responsibility of life,
                                    a state of impermanence.
    it would be nice.